


The Art Of Unusual Gift Giving

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:23:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas in 221b.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art Of Unusual Gift Giving

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas fic request by amytiger that goes something along the lines of, 'I'd love to see a Sherlock/John, where Sherlock thinks the perfect present for John is his name tattooed on him. In case he gets lost, or something... :D Bonus points if it's been there for a while, and Sherlock just waits until Christmas to point it out.'

John Watson has been known, in the past, to hate Christmas. For a few years when he was a teenager he couldn't stand it because his grandfather died on the 18th of December and the entire thing just seemed like a charade after that. But then the years passed and he grew and saw pain more vivid and visceral than that and Christmas just became Christmas again, instead of a reminder.

These days he likes it simply because Sherlock hates it, and it amuses him to see Sherlock berating everything known to mankind, up to and including battery powered Santas who sing and wiggle their hips.

"Man has the brainpower to split the atom and somehow they end up making things like this," he says, attempting to destroy the tacky thing Mrs Hudson has left on their table simply with the power of his eyes.

"Splitting the atom was hardly the best example you could have thought of," John replies, flicking on the kettle. He presses the button on the little toy Santa again. He actually thinks it's rather amusing.

And the way Sherlock's eyes narrow at it is rather delicious.

"It's been of more use than this," Sherlock says darkly, and John decides to give up correcting him all the time on the unsuitable things he says, because some jobs are just too big.

That Tuesday he has a few hours free from the surgery whilst everyone else goes on a training course, so John goes into town. It's busy and bustling and the streets are packed with children glad to be out of school and harassed mothers pulling their own mischievous Sherlockian toddlers around so John tries to make it quick, ducking in and out of shops at the speed of lightening. He buys a scarf and glove set for Harry, because what do you get for the person you once tried to protect but later realised they're intent on destroying themselves with a bottle, anyway? And he buys perfume for Mrs Hudson because Sherlock might label him (and the rest of mankind) as stupid but he's not so stupid that he could miss the massive hints she's been dropping to him every time the Chanel advert lights up their daytime television screen.

For Sherlock, he's pretty baffled.

John's not even sure if Sherlock agrees with gift giving, but in his heart of hearts he feels like it's churlish not to buy something for your flatmate slash colleague slash friend slash sexual partner.

Well, sometime sexual partner. When he's not being too genius-like and above the whole thing and lowers himself to the base sensation of arousal for long enough.

And god, just _thinking_ about that warms John inside his practical winter coat. The very thought of Sherlock stepping up behind him at the sink and pressing lips into his hair, fingers decided and sure on his hips... It doesn't happen anywhere near often enough but John knows that expecting things of Sherlock isn't like expecting things of other people. And when it _does_ happen he feels thoroughly and utterly chosen, perfect, thankful. Because to experience Sherlock in that state is like extremely precious metal or finding someone on Baker Street Mrs Hudson _doesn't_ know the intimate business of - rare. Very rare.

But thinking about these things whilst shopping isn't the best way to stay focussed. Thinking about these things will take John's focus away very quickly.

So he finishes up his cup of expensive, lavishly named caffeine beverage from Starbucks and ploughs on, back into the early Christmas night.

He still has no idea what to buy Sherlock Holmes. After all what do you get for the man who already has more hard drive data than most people? 

It makes him extremely difficult to surprise or amuse. Or distract or delight.

Or interest in any way at all, actually.

Maybe John will get him a corpse for Christmas. Though technically that would be murder, and unless Sherlock has a lethal pill in his hand, John's not doing that again.

In the end he finds a book in an ancient little book shop in Notting Hill all about the world's greatest unexplained mysteries. That should keep him quiet for a while.

\---------

On Christmas morning John rolls over to find Sherlock in bed next to him wearing a smug expression along with a t-shirt, his silk dressing gown and John's outdoor scarf.

He is also holding the book, looking proud.

John isn't sure what to ask about first. He goes for the one he's most affronted about.

"How did you find your present?"

"Simple deduction," Sherlock replies, tangling his legs with John's beneath the duvet, which is both very distracting and very nice. "You hid the gift in the last place you thought I'd look for it, so it was inside the oven. You should actually be rather grateful; I found it last week but politely refrained from opening it until this morning."

John frowns. "Um, thank you?"

"You're welcome."

Then he spots the scarf again. "Why are you - "

"It's cold."

"I see. You didn't think maybe of putting the heating on?"

Sherlock looks at him as though John is totally insane, and maybe perhaps he is. "It's downstairs where the air is even colder."

"Of course," John says, sighing at no one in particular. "Why get up when you can leech heat from me?"

"Exactly," Sherlock replies, dragging a sleep-warmed foot up and down John's thigh in response. His hair is a mess from their decidedly passionate - but ultimately sexless - session between these very sheets last night. Sometimes Sherlock likes to do nothing else but kiss, and John accepts that willingly; Sherlock happening to be a very good kisser.

"So what did you think of the book? Have you had a look at it?"

"Finished it, actually," Sherlock says, turning the thing over in his hands, opening the back cover. "Rather quaint and amusing to describe them as 'unexplained' mysteries when they're actually quite obvious, but an interesting read nonetheless."

John stares at him for a moment, stunned, then shakes his head. "Right, well I'm glad you liked it, anyway."

"Yes," Sherlock nods, then drops the book carelessly off the end of the bed. "Thank you."

John is about to point out that this is not exactly gift-receiving etiquette but suddenly he is being very thoroughly kissed. And who the hell does he think he's kidding, anyway? As though Sherlock would care about etiquette of any kind.

Just when he's about to lose his mind completely and give in to the desire to start rolling his hips against that very firm thigh now nestled between his, John feels Sherlock pull away from him. He briefly bemoans the loss in his own mind, then sees that Sherlock's is working ten to the dozen, so he stops. Clearly Something is coming.

"What?"

"I have a gift for you too," Sherlock says, though he says it in the sort of way that makes John suspect it's a live ticking bomb or a grenade with the pin out. Neither of which would shock him greatly, as Sherlock would probably see it as the foremost experiment in gift giving.

"Is it ticking?"

"Excuse me?"

"Nevermind. What is it?"

Sherlock frowns at him for a moment longer then moves his thigh distractingly. It makes it difficult for John to keep his full concentration on The Gift Of Doom. "Me."

From someone with an ego that size and such a strong sense of self importance, John supposes it's actually not that strange. "Oh, thank you," he says, as though people give themselves to him every day.

"No, I mean it's _on_ me. On my hip."

John wonders what the _absolute_ bloody hell he means before Sherlock begins pushing the duvet slowly down off him - off them - and for a second he gets distracted by the gradual unveiling of skin. It's like heaven and delicious drops of honey and - 

"What?!"

On Sherlock's hip there is a mark. John can't see it in detail from here, right up on the pillows of the bed but Sherlock's fingers are curled around the edge of the duvet and are holding it there around his thigh, just exposing his hip. For some reason he is wearing a t-shirt and a dressing gown and John's scarf but no pyjama bottoms or underwear.

Clearly it's some sort of Holmesian logic.

"What have you - What?"

"It's your gift," Sherlock says, and for the first time John realises he sounds slightly odd, almost - nervous. He's speaking in a wary tone, the way he did that first night in Angelo's restaurant when he said he was sorry but he was married to his work. Wary.

John is briefly reminded that that was all a lie, all that married to his work stuff. Or at least a lie until the night in the swimming pool, when they both felt the desperate, clawing way Sherlock pulled that coat off, like he'd wreck anything that hurt John, anything that even tried to come close.

After that there wasn't much pretending to be emotionless.

John looks at Sherlock now, frowns at him once more before leaning up on his elbow, twisting his body slightly so that he can lean down the bed and yet still stay entwined with Sherlock. That last bit seems very important. And the duvet dropping away from them like this leaves it extremely obvious how hard he is inside the thin cotton of his boxers but John doesn't care, not when Sherlock is looking at him with something akin to nerves in his eyes.

Up close the mark on his hip is clearly ink, black ink, and John thinks at first it's drawn on, but then - 

"Bloody hell."

It's permanent, dyed into the skin like tiny little tendrils spreading out along the minute creases of Sherlock's skin. And it says - very clearly - 

"John Watson."

"Yes," Sherlock says, brusque and matter-of-fact like John is being slow picking up pieces of evidence at a crime scene. "I'm yours."

This, John thinks, is both the most ludicrous and most sweet thing anyone has ever done.

Adorable, in a misguided, I-need-sectioning sort of way.

"You got - you got my name tattooed on your hip."

"About a month ago, actually," Sherlock says. "But I haven't felt like sex since then so we haven't had an opportunity to be naked."

Like you'd _need_ an opportunity to mention to someone that you've branded yourself with their name.

John can hardly believe it, can hardly believe the deep, careful madness.

"Is it real?" He asks, voice awed and airy as he runs his thumb carefully backwards and forwards over the letters, curving and beautiful despite their tiny size. Not obvious.

"Of course it's real," Sherlock tuts. "Did you think I'd inked it on with marker pen an hour ago?"

"I just can't believe - " John looks up, sees Sherlock watching him, eyes narrowed like he's still calculating, taking in the reactions. His curls are a disheveled mess and John has a sudden urge to ruin them further. Possibly whilst ruining Sherlock's mouth. "I don't need a certificate of ownership, Sherlock."

"Well hard luck," Sherlock replies, almost huffing. "You have one."

And it's amazing, this, because as John keeps tracing the letters with his thumb Sherlock seems to be getting more and more aroused, foot grazing John's calf repetitively, fitting them closer and closer together in all the right places. Forgetting the absurdity of it, the shocking, outlandish grand statement of it that only Sherlock would think to make and then not mention for a whole month, John leans down and kisses him, hard.

Like he's been set on a hair-trigger, Sherlock reciprocates instantly, pulling John's body flush against him so that there are tiny electrical sparks right along his spine where John feels Sherlock getting harder as the seconds go by. The feeling of that, something seldom given, wrecks his composure totally and John grinds back, pushing Sherlock into the mattress that is warm from both of their bodies overnight, warm from the writhing, delicious kisses last night that John now realises were Sherlock's unique brand of foreplay.

_God,_ he's a wonder. John's wonder, to be precise. He now has confirmation bled onto the fine, alabaster skin of a hip.

"Thank you," John pants, lips against Sherlock's mouth as fingers dip inside his boxers, take hold of his erection.

"For what?" Sherlock asks. A little squeeze and John groans, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's cheek as he feels a hand cradle the back of his head, more gentle than anyone would ever believe.

"The - the tattoo, you imbecile," he manages, barely able to breath whilst Sherlock is touching him like that, _so_ clever.

"You're welcome, John."

Possibly now the gift of socks from Harry and a jumper sent down in a parcel from his mother will forever pale in comparison, but frankly John can't bring himself to care. His fingers trace a hip that says more than anything solid ever could, anyway.


End file.
